Sunday, June 14, 2009

I think of a completely crushed man. Fours years had gone since he lost his family. Wiped out in a split second by a drunk driver. There was nothing to look forward to. There was no longer smiles and laughter. There was nothing, a big cold icy nothing. The pain and sorrow had left him a desolate man. One who no longer felt like dealing with people. They meant well, but if he had to hear, "How are you dealing with your loss?" or "how are you getting along now?" or "If there's anything I can do..."

"There's nothing any one can do for me now, just leave me the fuck alone." He thought as his head felt like exploding.

You would think my story is some tragedy. It's not. Joel Sherman found his solace on a mountain in a not so humble 2 million dollar spread. It was tucked inside the San Juan Mountains near Durango Colorado. He spent the summer and fall there by himself until events force him to deal with other people.

This story is romantic comedy. He meets a quirky funny woman who makes him laugh. She is so unlike any one he had ever known. She was also damaged goods. No man was going to melt the icy fortress she had built.

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Miner's Pass coming soon. Not available as E-Book yet.

Miner's Pass

Writers Profile

In "My Profile" I discuss my painter side. As the old adage goes, "Jack of All Trades, master of none" It was 1960 when I was eight years old and learning to paint with oils. The school I attended on weekends was this art school that was associated with The Indianapolis Art Museum which at the time was called The John Herron Art Museum. The school was run by young beatniks who would say "cool daddio" and they wore white smocks and black tights and berets. I wanted with all my heart to be like them, cool and a painter.

I think artists are driven by the need to have Mom put the little drawing they made on the refrigerator with those little magnets.

I'm not sure what motivates writers. Humans have a long history of needing to tell a story. It comes naturally. When I was a kid I wrote little poems. English class was my favorite subject. The teachers would tell us to write something.

With some of my heart I want to write. Some of my heart because I have to divvy out my heart. I started to learn guitar in eighth grade. Soon that was all my heart.

Life gets in the way of childhood dreams. These dreams don't manifest themselves in reality. Dreams don't pay bills and raise children.

I've written songs (many), stories, novels, plays and musicals. I bring this up because when you try to find an agent it's "List your published work." This is where I make the Lucy face(I Love Lucy) and go "Ew-illll huh-oh."

I've already dealt with "You want to show your paintings here? Really! We do art here!"